


golden hour

by sherlockianfangirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, drabble?, not too good oops, sorry 2 disappoint, wrote this at 11 PM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 16:29:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15800325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockianfangirl/pseuds/sherlockianfangirl
Summary: She’s a living, breathing, pearl of humanity trapped in a ragged net of dirty oysters.





	golden hour

Sunlight filters in through the curtains of the flat, pure gold diluted by the dirty hands of a miner. Even so, the watered-down sunlight manages to cast a new sheen upon everything in the flat. It ranges from a forgotten stack of case files to a dusty frame of preserved moths to the one object in the room that was already shining to begin with.

 

Person.

 

Not object, person.

 

A living, breathing, pearl of humanity trapped in a ragged net of dirty oysters.

 

(Y/n).

 

She’s sitting down, but not at her usual spot at the armchair in the corner. The sofas and armchairs have been ditched for a square of carpet on the floor. Sherlock feels a small tingle of something in the back of his mind - guilt? - as he recalls her frequent complaints of how the furniture fabric smells like cigarette smoke and rubbing alcohol and something else irregular that apparently irritates her nose.

 

Sherlock doesn’t think that she needs the lighting enhancements, but he won’t object to the way it makes her look. The sunlight catches on her skin, a golden shimmer residing on the crescent curve of her cheekbone, the slim tip of her ear, the jutting rays of collarbone. It’s captured in her eyes, flecks of miniature suns swirling in her pupils. It’s reflected in her earrings, the studs winking golden daylight.

 

Sherlock likes it.

 

He takes a step towards her, enraptured.

 

She notices him in the corner of her eye and smiles. Even her teeth have taken on the golden hue.

 

“Somebody’s home early.”

 

Her fingers curl into the carpet, pink nail polish glimmering in contrast to the rough, unvacuumed fibers as she goes to stand up.

 

“The case ended early.”

 

It’s a lie. But (Y/n) doesn’t pay attention to details like that, so he gets away with it.

 

To be entirely truthful, something in his mind was asking, pleading, begging to see her. The mind palace lost a few books in the acclaimed series of (Y/n), and Sherlock needs to find them once more. Or maybe he’ll just write a few new books, perhaps about the way her smile makes his heart skip eleven beats at once, or maybe how her voice sounds more melodious than the Berlin philharmonic playing Mozart.

 

“Good.” She walks towards him, eyes crinkling at the edges like wax paper on a baking pan as her smile widens. A thin strand of gold lines each crease. Sherlock can feel his hands starting to tremble.

 

“I missed you.”

 

The words slip out before he can stop them.

 

Shit.

 

As his skin grows hot and a bead of sweat rolls down the back of his neck and his hands shake, (Y/n) continues to walk towards him. Sherlock has frozen. The words that escaped his mouth have left him shocked silent and immobile.

 

She doesn’t stop until they’re so close that the tips of their toes touch. Despite being nearly nonexistent, the contact makes Sherlock’s ability to form rational thought become a struggle.

 

A good idea: he’ll write a novel on the way (Y/n)’s touch makes his thoughts turn into an expired can of alphabet soup. Watery and putrid, with jumbled letters so incoherent that the only thing that can be done is to hold your nose and swallow them down.

 

“I missed you, too,” she says, and Sherlock suddenly realizes that he’s been wanting her to say that this whole time. The rhythm of his heart speeds up to an even more ridiculous tempo, and he knows that the pasty skin of his neck must be completely overthrown by a violent red by now.

 

Up close, the sunlight’s impact on (Y/n) is even more drastic. Her whole face, the high peaks of her nose, the low dips of her eyelids, have been colored in a golden scale. The grubby miner would strike rich in the plains of her face.

 

And at that moment, Sherlock wishes he were the miner. He would love to trace a finger over the shapes of her face, learning each bend and curve, tracing each crease and wrinkle, committing each detail to memory as precisely as he is humanly capable.

 

Also, once you mine an area for a certain resource, nobody else can.

 

Sherlock likes the idea of keeping (Y/n) just for him.

 

He hopes she likes it too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys I tried   
> but alas I fail once again  
> peace out my dudes


End file.
